


The Devil You Say

by darkforetold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:23:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3653673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>London, 1923</i>. Castiel doesn't expect Dean, his childhood infatuation, to come walking into his life after 25 years of absence. When he does, things get heated... against a wall in one of the drawing rooms. Their fate is then decided in a game of cards. Will Dean stay in London and start a new life with Castiel? Or is it time for Castiel to step out from under Michael's shadow and go with Dean to America?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil You Say

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** Debutante Ball

_London, 1923_

Anna danced light on her feet as Michael led her across the ballroom. Around her, men and women both young and old watched, smiling while the orchestra played. Fresh roses filled the air with rich fragrance, crystal chandeliers glinting light off family jewels and pretty smiles. Men wore full evening dress, the women sporting the latest fashion of long pearl necklaces, shimmering headbands, and simple-lined dresses in restrained colors. Anna stood out in her bright blue ensemble, her youthful smile radiant, her social status climbing by the minute.

Castiel smiled at her as she caught his eye. She grinned back, then disappeared into the swirling crowd, the queen of her own Debutante Ball. Michael spun her around for the British peerage and they clapped. High society had never looked so delighted. Anna's future seemed bright. Rightfully so.

He turned away from the spectacle and grabbed a crystal glass. A firm hand clapped his back. Champagne sloshed onto the table's expensive linen.

"Go easy on Balthazar in the card game tonight, hm? The old chap's run into a bit of financial trouble these days."

Loose women and fast card games went unsaid. Castiel turned in time to catch Gabriel's grin, then lost him in the crowd of shimmering fabrics, beads, and sequins. With Michael showcasing Anna, Gabriel charming the peerage, and Balthazar sniffing around an heiress, Castiel found himself alone, an interest to no one. He situated himself near the ballroom's door, fully intending on making a quick exit should the need be dire. Champagne tickled his throat as bejeweled headbands shone like stars, rich silks swaying with movement. He was caught up in the sophistication of his peers, their simplicity and elegance mesmerizing, baffling almost, because he was one of them but didn't truly belong. He wondered if he had ever felt comfortable in his own skin. 

Suddenly, he felt more uncomfortable than he had ever been. Heat flushed alongside his back. Hairs stood on the back of his neck. Someone was standing close, much too close, and his body shot off warnings like stray gunfire.

"It's been too long, Cas."

_That voice_ —Castiel spun to face him, blue eyes notched as wide as he dared. There Dean stood, dressed in white tie affair, green eyes studying him. A painter's stoke of freckles swept over his cheeks and nose, and that smile—the same one he'd fallen in love with near 25 years ago—hadn't changed. He wanted to scream, laugh, cry. The English gentlemen in him could only afford an aborted nod and a bitter, hard swallow. "Hello, Dean."

The violin music turned chipper, but he didn't return the sentiment. He'd been struck dumb for words and stood there wavering. What did one say to someone he hadn't seen in years? How would they even begin mending the heartbreak of the past?

Dean caught wind of his struggle and tilted his head toward the door. "Let's go somewhere so we can talk."

Dutifully, Castiel followed him through the peerage, past people he politely smiled to, and into one of the more obscure drawing rooms, away from the steady stream of ball attendees. Inside, a card game table was set up, crystal glasses and decanters of whisky ready for tonight's poker game. It was somber with its dark green walls, shelves of books, and writing desk, simple yet suitable for a conversation of this magnitude. 

Castiel planted the champagne glass on the desk and traded it in for a whisky. The harsh liquid calmed his nerves somewhat, but did nothing for the resentment settling in his gut. Politeness didn't go amiss, though, and he offered Dean a glass, putting the decanter down when Dean respectfully declined.

"I heard you're a war hero," Dean began. War was an easy topic among men.

"Hardly. I served three years in His Majesty's Army, safely behind a desk." Castiel served himself another whisky, this time sipping it like a gentlemen would. "And you?"

"The war was practically over by the time I was required to register. For once, old age served me well."

Time had only made Dean more handsome. Distinguished. He barely looked like he belonged in his early forties, with his eyes still bright and boyhood smile quick on his lips. Lines had gathered around his eyes, his mouth, but they didn't diminish how beautiful he'd become. Not even the light dusting of gray in his hair could make him any less the man he adored so long ago. 

Castiel cleared his throat—he'd been staring again—and offered a polite smile. The conversation halted and allowed them a breath or two, inviting anger, hurt, and resentment to settle in the cracks. Dean rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he'd had since always, and let out a little sound. It was something of a sigh mixed with half a chuckle. "26 years..."

"Where's the time gone?" Castiel asked bitterly.

"Cas—"

"Why in _God's name_ didn't you write?" Castiel choked down another gulp of whisky. "I didn't know whether you were dead or alive after the war—bloody hell, even _before_ the war."

"Didn't think you'd want to hear from me after I'd left."

"And now? You think I want to hear from you 26 years later at my sister's ball?" Castiel flinched at his tone, at Dean's wounded expression. He took in a deep breath and eased it out. "My apologies, Dean. I didn't—"

"No, you're right to be angry, Cas. I should've written. There's no damn excuse for what I did to you."

Castiel swallowed a lump, wanting nothing more than to rescue Dean from his self-pity. Instead, he poured himself another whisky and busied himself with it, looking into the depths of the glass. "How is Sam?"

"Never been better. Married to a beautiful woman named Jessica. He's a lawyer now."

"Smashing," Castiel said. "And America? How are you getting on?"

"Good. I'm a salesman now with my friend Al." Dean smiled a little. "You could say he's... sort of a wise guy."

Castiel nodded. "I'm delighted to hear that you surround yourself with men you can trust, and who are intelligent."

Dean laughed, and it was beautiful. Rich and deep, sprung from their time as young boys when they had the world at their feet. He caught himself smiling at the sound of it, even though he was confused as to why Dean was laughing at all. Whatever the reason, it drew Dean toward him, stopping him short a few feet away. Dean's smile was stunning when he said, "Still the Cas I know."

It was a badge of honor, worth more than those he'd received in His Majesty's Army. Castiel cast his eyes downward and let a private smile spread over his mouth. He hadn't noticed how close Dean had become until he looked up, suddenly lost in those green eyes. So close that he could barely breathe.

"I suppose Britain is still treating you well," Dean said quietly, gaze dropping to his lips.

Castiel wetted them. "As good as it always has. Michael has entrusted me with managing his estates."

Dean tightened his lips. He didn't have to remind Castiel that he was still in Michael's great shadow; it was written on the lines of his handsome face. The conversation slowed again, and with its stuttering, Castiel dropped his eyes and absently set the whisky glass on the table. Dean's finger guided his chin up. His touch was soft. Gentle. Meant only for him.

"Is there a lady in your life?" 

Castiel swallowed hard. "No."

"A gentleman?"

Hardly an appropriate question, but Castiel simply shook his head and choked out, "You?"

"Women... had a few, lost a few. Men? No one since you. None of them seemed to compare to the boy I spent my summers with."

"I never took you to be charming, Dean. Did you learn that in America?"

Dean scoffed. "I'm more world-wise now. I was always charming."

When Dean winked, Castiel looked down again, the flush quick on his cheeks. Dean seemed even closer somehow, and Castiel couldn't help but notice that flutter in his gut; the tell-tale sign that Castiel was still stupidly in love with him even after all these years. Dean bridged the gap between them as if he knew. The scent of him drifted, and it smelled otherworldly, like mahogany and leather, a note of danger hidden in between. 

His eyes orbited around his throat. Dean's white bow tie was askew, and he reached up without thinking, straightening it with trembling fingers.

"You should've asked for a valet," Castiel whispered absently.

Dean closed his hand around Castiel's fingers. Castiel looked up, drawn in by green and plush lips.

"Remember the summers our families used to spend in the country together?"

How could he forget? They had spent long summer days in the meadows, sharing chaste kisses, chasing each other until the moon hung high in the sky. Young love blossomed when they matured. Lovemaking had replaced boyhood uncertainty, their passion enough to fire the sun. When Dean left for America—

"I didn't have the chance to tell you," Dean said, reading his mind. "I've regretted every day since that morning."

Castiel took in a quiet breath and held it firm. Gently, Dean squeezed his fingers, running a thumb over the tips of them. "Do you still chase the bees?"

He let out a shaky laugh. "Not with these old bones." Castiel swallowed, bringing his eyes up to Dean's face. "Do your freckles still get darker in the sun?"

"Do you still blush every time I touch you?"

Dean leaned in and their lips brushed together in a chaste kiss he'd remembered from when they were young boys. Fire licked his cheeks as it always had, and his blush threatened to flay skin from bone. His moment of embarrassment melted away, his hesitation gone, and Castiel relaxed, parting his lips. Their kiss changed from boyhood innocence to a deeper, more sensual exploration from their adolescent summers. Dean's tongue swept inside, tasting him, licking over his own and playing for domination. A little moan rumbled in his throat, and Dean's breath caught and hitched, his arm snaking around Castiel's waist to bring him even closer. 

He had to remind himself how to breathe.

Castiel let Dean possess his mouth, their kiss crossing yet another border. This time, Dean took him like the man he was with a hunger that left him unbalanced. He staggered back into the table, his hand sputtering, knocking the whisky glass to the floor. It went unnoticed as Dean surged with his passion, his kiss a demand, his clawed fingers a promise he'd never let go. There was desperation in the way their lips had become bruised, the tight, near-suffocating grip Dean had around him. As Castiel tipped his head back, opening his mouth in absolute surrender, he wondered why Dean had shown up now of all times, after all these years. He wondered if he would stay this time, with him in Britain, then stopped thinking altogether. He didn't need to think. He needed to _feel_. 

He angled his body forward, pressing his hips into Dean's just so he could _feel_ his scorching heat. Dean nipped at the bottom of his lip and returned the favor. Their hard erections slotted in place, and it was the metaphorical spark to a can of gasoline. They erupted with a fury of kissing, grinding, desperately trying to make up for the years that'd been lost. With Dean like this, in his arms, he suddenly didn't give a damn if his peers caught him, if he was cast out of high society, if he was arrested for his dalliances. He only cared that Dean was kissing him, shoving him against the nearest wall, and cupping him as if he'd always owned him.

He hadn't noticed his trousers had been undone until he felt _him_ —their cocks skin-to-skin, wet, and hot. Dean wrapped a strong hand around both of them and began stroking, the speed agonizingly slow, the friction more than he could handle. Castiel broke off the kiss and let his mouth hang open. He panted while Dean attached himself to his neck, kissing and biting, and let out a groan that had undoubtedly been heard by the peerage. The sound fired Dean up anew, and Dean stroked them faster, harder, until there was nothing but fractured little breaths between them. Castiel pawed at him uselessly, grabbing hold of his evening tailcoat lapels to draw him in closer. They pressed their foreheads together and came undone with each other's names on stolen breaths.

They were both soiled and exposed when they finally peeled apart. Castiel tucked himself in, and Dean did the same, waist- and dress coats smoothed out, trousers wiped up of the mess. 

The door swung open—"Gentlemen!"—and they jumped apart like children. 

"Let's play cards," Gabriel declared, sweeping in with a line of men at his back. Some he knew and didn't flooded in like rats boarding a wooden plank to escape a sinking ship. Balthazar flashed him a grin and nodded at Dean, then took his seat. Whiskies were poured, cigars lit. Castiel sat next to Gabriel, and Dean across from him. They shared a hidden smile. Dean's turned a shade of wicked, and nerves crawled up Castiel's spine. 

He jumped when Gabriel plopped the deck of cards in front of him.

"Easy, old boy," Gabriel chided. "You deal—and, please, no cheating. It's ungentlemanly."

Castiel shot his brother a scowl, then glanced back at Dean, who had a devil's smile riding his lips. "I hear you're a bit of a shark, Cas," Dean drawled with his strange American accent. "Bit of a player myself, so how's about a wager?" Sound drained from the room. "I win, you come to America. To _stay_. You win... I call London my home. What do you say? Do we have an _honest_ gentlemen's wager?"

Gabriel downed his entire glass of whisky and motioned for more. Balthazar let out a boisterous laugh, shouted, "Bloody brilliant!" and slapped a hand on the card table. The others just stared, cigars hanging out of their mouths, whiskies halfway to their lips.

"Fine a wager as any, I'd say," Castiel remarked.

They stared each other down, then Castiel dealt the cards. 

Slowly. One by one.


End file.
